


Adventures in Discorporation

by anticyclone



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (it's a sex thing), (the demon is Crowley), (the summoner is Aziraphale), 5 times + 1, Adam Young Still Has Powers (Good Omens), Anal Sex, Awkward Conversations, Clothed Sex, Demon Summoning, Discorporation (Good Omens), Hand Jobs, Hit by a car, Humor, M/M, Mild Embarrassment, Post-Canon, Sex Mishaps, Sexual Roleplay, Temporary Character Death, car crashes, clothed/naked sex, improperly prepared pufferfish, mild bondage, non-graphic deaths, pedestrian deaths, unstable balconies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-02-01 02:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21338800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/pseuds/anticyclone
Summary: "All you need to know," Crowley tells Adam, "is that it's Aziraphale's fault.""That is actually even more than I need to know," Adam assures them, his expression pained.In 6,000-odd years, Aziraphale only got discorporated once, and Crowley managed to avoid it altogether. So people should really stop judging them for cramming a bunch of discorporations in over a decade or so. Statistically, they're doing great.Or: Five times Crowley and Aziraphale got stupidly discorporated and the former Antichrist had to put them back together again. Plus one time they got to fuck.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 266





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale sometimes (only sometimes, mind!) do stupid things. And when a demon and an angel do a stupid enough thing, they have to ask Adam Young for help.
> 
> And then they do another stupid thing while Adam is on vacation. Pepper can't help them, but she can help the Bentley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first discorporation is pretty short because this started as comment fic. Many thanks to everybody who prompted and complimented this along the way. Y'all are all gems.

**1.**

Adam regrets it as soon as he asks, but he can't not ask. "Can't you, like... fly? Both of you?"

"When you're - very infatuated with a person," Aziraphale says, making several gestures with his hands Adam doesn't want to begin to interpret. "In the heat of the moment, you see-"

"Sorry," the spectral figure of Crowley interrupts. "Infatuated?"

Adam slumps in his chair. He wonders if they would notice if he slid off to the floor.

"I'm trying to make it _applicable,"_ the watery image of Aziraphale 'whispers,' not at all lowering his voice. "You can hardly expect a sixteen-year-old to understand-"

_"Infatuated,"_ Crowley says again, somehow putting a hiss in it.

"Well I can scarcely begin to explain what the ongoing culmination of thousands of years of knowing a person does to your heart when you don't technically have one, and in any case is not pertinent to any situation Adam may find himself in, can I?" Aziraphale snaps. "'Love' falls a little short, Crowley!"

With a Herculean effort of will, Adam bites back that the balcony they had been on also fell short. He also wants to point out that they did have hearts. Must have, or they wouldn't be bothering him like this. Except Aziraphale is red-faced and Crowley is gaping, visibly stunned. Almost like he'd recently been kicked out of his body after falling eight stories, except somehow moreso.

It would be sweet if Adam wasn't sixteen and the people in his bedroom were not the discorporated souls of an angel and a demon who had interrupted a really good book. For somebody who always acted like he liked books a whole lot, Aziraphale was not appreciating that Adam had just been about to get to the good bits.

"If I promise never to have sex on an unstable balcony," Adam says before Crowley can muster a reply, "and also to give you your bodies back, do you promise never to talk to me about this again?"

***

**2.**

"Adam's not around," Pepper says. "He's in Ireland. The whole week. Family trip."

She doesn't bother to look up from her magazine, because she knows she won't be able to see anything. All the Them know the vague feeling the demon and the angel gave off when spectral, now. It's easy once you've gotten the thing of it. Just a side step off their normal selves.

"Ireland," Aziraphale sighs. Next to him Crowley's aura gets all slithery. "We'll just have to wait, Crowley."

"Can't, angel. Can't leave the Bentley on the side of the road that long."

Pepper sharpens and looks up from her issue of _Wheels (Semi-)Weekly._ She has recently gotten into cars. Adam says they're all terrible, internal combustion engines, ruining the planet. He's right but it seems like in the past few years machines have been subtly altered to be slightly less terrible. Also, nobody in Tadfield owns an electric car, no matter how many times Pepper has tried to convince Anathema that A) Newt would not break it and B) Pepper would only ask to borrow it sometimes.

Aziraphale _tsks._ "Do you want me to go all the way to Ireland, get reincorporated without you, and then come back?"

A stony silence emanates from where Crowley must be standing.

Pepper thinks about asking why only Aziraphale could go to Ireland, then decides she doesn't care or want to know. She has learned that there is a lot you do not want to know about people who have been around for 6,000 years. This is also why she doesn't bother asking how they got themselves killed this time. It must have been something very dumb, since they aren't volunteering anything.

Pepper is not interested in things that are very dumb. She _is_ interested in the Bentley.

"If the car is stuck somewhere nearby," she says, reasonable as can be, "I could move it for you. Bet the Youngs wouldn't mind you using their drive."

Aziraphale makes a skeptical sound, in the manner of someone who is not sure if he should be suspicious, and is therefore mistrustful of his own self. In her opinion, that's the best kind of adult. She can imagine the fretful look on his face when he asks, "Do you have your driving license, dear?"

"Yes," says Pepper, who does not.

But that's the Law, and this is the Bentley, to which she is sure the Law does not apply.

A ghostly ripple at her elbow. Pepper turns into it and picks her chin up. It feels like Crowley leans forward to squint at her. "Are you tall enough to reach the pedals?" he asks.

Pepper raises one eyebrow. "Are you?"

The ripple slinks back. "Just - be careful. Or else." A brief pause and an increase in the general level of angelic disapproval hanging over them. Crowley's voice hisses: "Please."

A fifteen minute bike ride later and they are all three staring in silence at the Bentley, a truly beautiful machine currently smashed into a tree.

"You didn't tell me you _wrecked_ it," Pepper says, when she finally manages to stop staring. If she had a hat she would take it off and press it over her heart. A funeral dirge is playing, somewhere, and it doesn't know why.

She props her bike up against a different, unharmed tree. She'll have to figure out how to get it back later. They can't miracle up a rack for it like they are now.

Luckily the driver's side window is down and she can wriggle between the tree and the dented-in door to clamber into the front seat. She takes a split second to be grateful that occult and ethereal bodies dissolve when they cease functioning. Unlike broken windshield glass, which she has to carefully brush off to the floor. When it's safe to sit down, she grabs the wheel with both hands and sighs.

There's even a tree branch stuck in through the front. "What did they do to you?" she asks the Bentley.

_"I_ didn't crash it," Crowley says, his voice like ice. _"I_ would never."

"I wasn't driving," Aziraphale counters.

Pepper can't believe she's sitting in the front seat of the Bentley - the Bentley! - and it might be too broken to even start. She pats the steering wheel in apology. She is vaguely aware that the angel and the demon are bickering, which is too much. They're sitting in the middle of a tragedy and they're bickering.

"It was your fault," Crowley mutters. "Distracting me."

"You asked for a distraction," Aziraphale says, biting off each consonant along the way. "You said, 'please.'"

"Watch your mouth, angel."

Aziraphale sniffs. "You said that, too."

Pepper looks up through the shattered windshield and wishes that she hadn't overheard any of that. But she has heard about the balcony incident, from Adam, and that is not a thing a woman is capable of un-learning. (She had specifically asked Anathema if there was a spell for it. There's not. Anathema had looked very hard, after Pepper explained why she wanted it.)

"I'm sorry, did you crash the Bentley because you were busy getting a blowjob _while you were driving?"_ she demands, appalled.

Two silences: One scandalized, and one simmering.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of. In my whole life. Aren't you like, older than the universe?" She takes back thinking that either of them are adults. "I should be asking you if you have your driving licenses."

"Dear, I don't think we should be talking about this. You aren't old enough to-"

"I'm seventeen, I know what sex is," Pepper says, wishing that she didn't. "I know you aren't supposed to have it while operating heavy machinery!"

Crowley growls, "Start the car."

Pepper crosses her arms over her chest. Crowley doesn't scare her. And as soon as she gets back home, she's texting all of this to Adam in fine and gruesome detail. Payback for telling her about the bloody balcony incident in the first place.

There is an increase in the general level of demonic disapproval hanging over them. If Aziraphale's anger had felt like sunlight glaring straight into her eyes, this felt like the yawning shadows at the backs of her heels when she runs up the stairs at night. It's the feeling she gets when she's home alone and a part of the house creaks that shouldn't creak on its own. It's telling her to move. Or else.

Pepper inhales and turns to look where she thinks Crowley is standing. Right next to the driver's side.

Then she flips him off.

There is a noise that is probably not Aziraphale choking back laughter, because if it was, he'd be in trouble for it later. The fury in the air cracks in half.

"I have a bike. I can go right back home, see if I can't. And it's supposed to rain tomorrow." That's an empty threat, she would never let rain get all in the Bentley. It would be beyond tragic. It would be irresponsible, which Pepper is not. But the demon doesn't know that.

Crowley begs, "Start the car, _please."_

The Bentley turns over as soon as she touches the key.

Music streams out of the speakers, a lyrical voice wailing _The years of care and loyalty / Were nothing but a sham, it seems._

"How did you also run out of petrol at the same time?" Pepper asks. She knows how to read the gauges, although the Bentley isn't quite organized like most of the cars in her magazines. First they want her to drive a wrecked car, then they want her to do it with no petrol. Someone is testing her. "Who drives out into the countryside with a nearly empty tank?"

"It doesn't need petrol," Crowley growls. "It's a good car."

_I'll erase the memories / To start again with somebody new_ the Bentley growls back, unplacated.

"That's not how that works," Pepper tells him. "That's not how anything works."

_Save me, save me, ohhhh._

"Please, Pepper," Aziraphale murmurs. She almost jumps but grabs onto the steering wheel to stop herself. She hadn't felt him moving in to the passenger seat, but that's where his voice is coming from. "If it doesn't work we'll figure something else out. Try, please?"

The song clicks over to something else.

Sighing, Pepper puts the car into reverse. If it doesn't move, she has some cash in her sock drawer. How bad could the mileage on this thing really be? Surely she can afford enough petrol to get the Bentley the short distance back to town. She's already plotting out the bike ride. But to her great surprise the wheels turn. The car backs up and the fuel gauge doesn't change, as if nothing's wrong at all.

_God knows!_ the speakers howl. _God knows I want to break free!_

"Excellent," Aziraphale says. Crowley, wherever he's decided to sit, is silent.

Oh, and the Bentley really does handle like a dream. She's sure of it because it's so easy even though this is the only car she's ever actually talked anybody into letting her drive. It isn't hard to get back onto the road and then it's like nothing happened to it at all. You'd never know it'd been crashed. Except, er. The tree branch does come with, but she'll deal with that when she parks.

"I won't crash you," she swears. "If you were my car, I'd take perfect care of you. Wax and polish and everything."

Crowley makes a strangled sound from the back seat.

The Bentley purrs all the way to the Young house.

Pepper texts the entire thing to Adam in grisly detail. She is liberal with her use of emojis. She has no idea what Aziraphale and Crowley do until the end of the Youngs' trip, but Adam follows with blocking her number.

Sunday night, Pepper makes sure she is hovering by the Bentley when the Youngs pull up. Adam gets out and stares at it while his parents go inside, preferring to act like it is normal to have Crowley's wrecked car in their drive. Pepper had put a tarp over it, to protect it from the rain, but she'd removed it an hour ago.

"It's like they killed somebody," Adam says, shaking his head. "Besides themselves."

"Crowley doesn't even put petrol in it, you know."

Adam's face scrunches up, torn between the indignity of fossil fuels and the indignity of doing improper maintenance on the Bentley. Or so Pepper assumes. He sighs, and gently lays his hand on an unscathed portion of the hood. Pepper blinks and the car is gleaming, whole and clean and perfect.

"You didn't give it an electric engine, did you?" she asks.

Adam mutters back, "If he doesn't buy petrol, what's the point?"

"Er," Aziraphale's voice says. Even Adam jumps, which means they must've just walked up. Adam's eyes definitely flit back and forth like he is looking at two people. "Hello. That is, er. Good evening. Did Pepper tell you-"

"Pepper told me nothing, absolutely nothing, except that I have to fix you. Again. It's fine, I don't want to know," Adam says all in a rush with one breath. Pepper laughs.

When Crowley pops back into existence he puts both hands on the Bentley's hood. Then he jumps back as if bitten, gnashing his teeth. Adam and Pepper exchange a look. Aziraphale is ignoring it, busy fixing his bow tie.

Crowley glares at the car for a solid moment before saying, through his teeth, "Thank you, Pepper. Thank you, Adam," while Aziraphale finally looks up and rushes in with, "Oh, yes, thank you!"

"You're welcome," they answer, in unison.

Crowley immediately gets into the driver's seat, but the Bentley refuses to turn on until Crowley promises to polish and wax it by hand when they get to London. Aziraphale laughs where everyone can catch him at it, which he is definitely in trouble for later, but the passenger door doesn't open for him until he promises (Pepper prompts in his ear, _Wheels (Semi-)Weekly_ rolled up in her hands) to detail the interior.

They stand there while the car drives off. Adam turns to her and asks, "Staying for dinner?"

"If I save up and buy an old beat up Bentley, will you fix it for me?"

"No."

"What if I let you put in an electric engine?"

"No!"

Pepper shrugs. "Had to ask. What's for dinner?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale really wanted to try a new restaurant for date night. It did not work out. Also, Crowley should've called Adam before driving over. He might've gotten a heads up about Adam's new flatmate.

**3.**

In retrospect, Crowley should have changed clothes before going to Adam's. Maybe he wouldn't have been recognized, out of a dress.

In his defense he had really been hoping this would be a quick fix and he could get on with his date. Also, how was he supposed to know Adam had finally gotten a new flatmate after the other one had prepaid six months' rent and then disappeared except to fill the cabinets with fresh boxes of cereal every couple of weeks?

And, he is pretty sure, not even Agnes Nutter would've predicted the kid opening the door that night to be Warlock _fucking_ Dowling.

Warlock, who has blue streaks in his hair is wearing it in a braid along the left side of his face, turns white as a sheet when he looks up at Crowley.

Of course, at this moment Crowley does not recognize him. "Hey, kid. I'm here for Adam."

Warlock opens his mouth but says nothing. He is wearing eyeliner. It's too much, but Adam's last flatmate had once spent several weeks wearing a domino mask all the time, so Crowley figures this is an improvement. (Crowley also regrets how much attention he has apparently paid to Aziraphale updating him on the trials and tribulations Adam was having with his flatmate. This must be mental space he could be using for something else.)

"So… is he here?" Crowley asks, after a very awkward moment of just standing there. He is in new heels and they would be hurting his feet, except that even six-inch stiletto heels know better than to hurt Crowley's feet.

Tonight is the third Friday of the month, which means date night. Aziraphale had, God damn him, wanted to try a new restaurant. So new that it hadn't been reviewed anywhere yet. Two days ago Crowley had walked past a shop window and seen a slinky black dress in the window, lined in red silk.

To the shopgirl's astonishment it had been on markdown.

The dress is one-shouldered and has a slit from the ankle to his thigh. His hair is long and in a very complicated braided updo that Aziraphale is going to tenderly shake loose later that night, and brush the knots out of after. He looks fucking fantastic. The Bentley had played Vivaldi's rendition of _Killer Queen_ when he'd gotten behind the wheel.

Crowley was not planning, at all, on being in Adam's flat tonight. He is in a sour mood.

"Uh," he says, because Warlock has backed up to make room for him to walk inside but is also clutching the doorknob for dear life. "If you're dying, I don't know how to fix it."

Adam chooses that moment to walk into the room. He's holding a very American-looking plastic jar and eating out of it with a spoon. Crowley has to assume that "Mmhyy Crhmphly" means "Hi, Crowley," in peanut butter.

The other kid turns to Adam and whispers, hoarsely, "You know Ashtoreth?"

Crowley groans. Next to him, Aziraphale's inconveniently discorporated voice murmurs, "Oh, damn."

And that's how they find out that Warlock Dowling, studying internationally, is Adam's new flatmate. The peanut butter was part of a care package from some high school friends.

Adam blinks. His mouth is still full of peanut butter.

Warlock looks back at Crowley and the shocked expression fades somewhat into confusion. Crowley already knows he won't like what comes next, and he doesn't. "Why aren't you Scottish anymore?" he asks, like each word coming out of his mouth is a surprise even to himself.

There are several reactions Crowley could choose from, here. If he'd been Aziraphale, he could have said a proper hello. If he'd been feeling generous, he could have made a comment about accent drift and the fact that it had been nine years since he'd seen Warlock last and people changed, sometimes.

But Aziraphale has gotten himself killed on improperly prepared pufferfish on their date night, while Crowley is dressed to kill, so fuck that.

Crowley snaps his fingers. Warlock freezes in time, lips parted, head tilted to one side.

Behind him, Adam groans and sticks his spoon back into the peanut butter. "Really? He's my friend. You can't go around freezing my friends," he says. "Also, why does he think you're named Ashtoreth?"

"We, uh, did tell you about our original plan to avert the Apocalypse, didn't we?" Aziraphale asks. Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose. He imagines that Aziraphale is wringing his hands. "About how I was a gardener and Crowley was a nanny?"

Adam stares at them. He is also turning white as a sheet. _"You_ are _actually_ Nanny Ashtoreth?"

"Look, if you fix Aziraphale, we'll just go," Crowley says. "Also, get that look off your face, a chef poisoned him."

"Do you know he still thought your lullabies were _normal,_" Adam says, strangled.

Aziraphale makes a surprised sound. "You sang him lullabies?"

"What - of course I did! I was his nanny!" Crowley snaps. Perhaps more Scottishly than a moment before. "What kind of nanny doesn't sing lullabies?"

"Dream of blood and brains?" Adam demands. Aziraphale makes a sound that is both surprised, which is ridiculous of him, and appalled, which is just unfair. What had he expected? "Crowley! Our neighbor is a single mum with twin infants who can cry for hours! He sang it to them!"

Crowley sniffs. "Bet it worked," he says, primly.

Adam looks embarrassed. "I mean, that's not the point."

In the corner, Aziraphale clears his throat.

"Oh. Sorry." Adam snaps his fingers.

Crowley starts to make a funny noise about that, but Aziraphale is suddenly back in corporeal form and bumps into him, unsteady on his feet. Crowley puts an arm around him and Aziraphale rests his head on Crowley's shoulder, which, honestly, was the entire reason for the towering stiletto heels in the first place. The one-shoulder dress is also providing an unexpected benefit: He can feel Aziraphale's breath on his bare skin. Maybe this night is salvageable after all.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says.

Crowley says, "Yep. See you later."

Adam points at Warlock. "You can't just leave!" Crowley is going to say he'll fix the kid once they're in the elevator, but Adam adds, "You have to explain to him."

"No way in Heaven."

But Aziraphale lifts his head and stares up at him and, ugh. "Crowley." It's all he needs to say, but he keeps going. "Perhaps just for a minute. What does Warlock already know, Adam?"

"Uh." Adam looks embarrassed again. He grabs his spoon and stirs the peanut butter. Or tries to. His eyes flit over to his flatmate. It's a very shifty look. Crowley knows from shifty looks. "Everything?"

They both stare at him.

"Look, you would've told him everything too. He's _weird._ He owns four different translations of the Bible and also maybe an actual demon summoning manual, he always says it's a joke but I'm not sure. He was just like," and here Adam drops into an American accent, somewhere between Boston and Alabama, "'Oh, that makes sense. My dad says the Kraken was Russian propaganda but I knew he was wrong.'"

Aziraphale sighs. Crowley rolls his eyes, because when Thaddeus Dowling is mentioned he's obligated, but he also snaps Warlock back into time.

Warlock squeaks. _"Brother Francis?"_

Adam steers him to a chair before he can pass out. Then he does most of the actual explaining, about Heaven and Hell assuming Warlock was the Antichrist and Crowley and Aziraphale going in to do the, uh, child rearing. They both jump in to correct some of Adam's more concerning misconceptions. (Like Aziraphale being any good at gardening.) At one point Warlock seems to sway, but Adam pushes the jar of peanut butter into his hands and he recovers.

When it's over Warlock looks at them both. He swallows a mouthful of peanut butter and says, "Always figured you two were secretly married."

Aziraphale's mouth pops open, soundlessly, and Crowley resolutely does not turn red.

"It was how you looked at each other when you thought nobody could see," Warlock continues. "And also kept asking about each other and pretending like you didn't."

"They're not married," Adam says, frowning.

Warlock points the peanut butter spoon at Aziraphale. "Francis - Sorry. Aziraphale is wearing a ring. Always has."

Aziraphale blinks, his mouth shutting, and absently grabs onto his ring. Crowley wants to slither right out the front door. Adam is frowning, his face clouded. "Hey! You said if you ever had a wedding we would all be invited," he says, suddenly sounding eleven years old again. "You said Anathema would officiate. You promised Brian chocolate cake."

"I did not," Aziraphale says. He sounds peevish for someone who has never talked to Crowley about weddings. "I didn't say there wouldn't be chocolate cake, but I didn't promise it."

"What's this about you owning a demon summoning manual?" Crowley asks. He may employ a Scottish accent for it.

Warlock jerks to attention and everybody stops talking about cake. "Um. It's a joke?"

Crowley tilts his face so his glasses slip down and he can glare at Warlock over them. He's only done this a couple times before: once, when Warlock had been playing with firecrackers in the garden and set fire to a hedge, and once when he'd run into the street chasing a ball and nearly got hit by a car.

Warlock winces. "You made me practice circles! It's - It's soothing!"

"You draw demon summoning circles to relax? I thought you were doing yoga," Adam says, while Aziraphale turns to Crowley and exclaims, "Crowley, that's genuinely dangerous!"

"It's probably not a real book." Crowley pushes his glasses back up.

The book is retrieved and handed over to Aziraphale, who opens it in his lap and stares at it in silence for three solid minutes.

"Okay. It's a real book," Crowley says, patting Aziraphale's arm and trying to ignore the icy glare that is trying to force him down to his knees. "But you never actually managed to summon anything with it, right?"

Warlock looks up at the ceiling.

Adam points at him. "I _knew_ you didn't have a party when I went home for the weekend!"

"It was just the once. It was an accident. My hand slipped, I cut myself with the ritual knife."

Aziraphale clutches the book to his chest.

Alarmingly, Crowley finds that he is simmering. He has honestly not thought much about Warlock in the past nine years, except to scoff when other nannies give their charges dinosaur toys at the park. (Crowley does not think God is funny.) After the not-Apocalypse, he'd read something in the paper about the Dowlings going back to America, and he'd figured that was that. But so help somebody if there is a demon out there trying to buy this snotty kid's soul.

"I taught you better than that," he hisses, still more Scottish than usual. "No more circles, ever. They're for serious infernal business only and you certainly don't have any. Who did you summon?"

Warlock gulps. "Adramelech?"

"Is that a _question?"_ Crowley asks, at the same time that Aziraphale ducks his head behind the book and hides his face with it. His shoulders shake and Crowley hopes that neither of the boys can tell that he's holding back laughter.

"No, Na - Crowley," Warlock mumbles. He grabs onto his braid with one hand and fusses with the end of it. "He said he was Adramelech, anyway."

Crowley drums his fingers against his knee. "Did you promise him anything?"

"No. He didn't want anything." Another shifty look. Kids these days, think they can get away with everything.

"Isn't that the weekend you put the blue in your hair?" Adam asks.

"I'm moving _out_," Warlock hisses. It's a good hiss. Crowley would be proud if he wasn't so mad.

"No you won't," Adam says, cheerfully. "You like me and I lie to your parents for you."

Crowley takes a breath for patience and another for mercy, since Aziraphale has abandoned him to bite his lower lip very hard and study the demon summoning text as if it has any new information in it. "It could have been worse," he says, and both the boys look back at him. "I'm assuming he insulted your wardrobe and then went through it?"

Adam waves both hands at the flat in general. "Clothes. Everywhere."

"He incinerated my tennis shoes."

"That's what happened to them? You don't play tennis! You don't need-"

"It's just what they're called, Adam!"

"Shut up," Crowley orders, and they both do. "Adramelech is a Chancellor of Hell, you're lucky he didn't incinerate the entire building. He gets distracted by bad fashion, so I guess you're also lucky you have terrible taste in clothing-" He ignores Warlock's insulted expression. "-or he might of done. He also tends to Satan's wardrobe. Personally."

It really could have been worse. Summoning Satan's fashion advisor is middling-low on the list of mistakes Warlock could have made.

Aziraphale closes the book. He has managed to stop laughing to himself. "Wherever did you get this, Warlock?"

"Flea market in Iowa. I snuck off from a caucus."

"It really isn't safe in mortal hands, dear boy." Aziraphale sighs. "Can you promise me you won't buy any more?"

Warlock's ears turn red. "Yes," he says, in a very, very tiny voice.

There is a beat of silence.

"Well. Thank you." Aziraphale hesitates and Crowley can feel the rest of their evening slipping through his fingers. If the dress could cry, it would be crying. It didn't do anything to deserve this. "I suppose we should - That is, how are you getting on? How are your parents?"

Shrugging, Warlock says, "Divorced."

"Good for Harriet," Crowley says, reflexively.

Aziraphale elbows him hard enough to make him wince and hurriedly changes the subject. "What are you studying?"

"Urban planning," Warlock says, in the rote way that students everywhere have. But he also looks tentatively pleased to have been asked.

"Oh! Crowley, you should - Crowley is very interested in infrastructure, you see - Crowley, you should tell him about the M25."

Interested in infrastructure? Crowley stares at him, looks at the kids, looks back at Aziraphale, and shakes his head. "I should really not, angel."

"Dad said it was never on fire," Warlock says. "Not for real."

Crowley smiles to show teeth. "It was on fire. For real."

Twenty-six minutes later, Crowley finally pries Aziraphale off the couch. He has now learned much more about university urban planning programs than he ever wanted. He intends to forget most of it as soon as they're out of the building. Adam and Warlock both follow them across the room as if the door is not ten feet away.

At the doorway Aziraphale turns around, shoves the demon summoning book into Crowley's hands, and gives Warlock a two-armed hug. Warlock's eyes get very wide. Then his arms snap up, like he's afraid Aziraphle is going to stop. Aziraphale pats him on the back, while Warlock buries his face in the angel's shoulder. 

"Stay out of trouble now, dear."

"Yes," he mumbles.

Crowley does not feel a twinge of guilt. He does give Aziraphale back the book and say, "I'll be out in a second," and then waits for Aziraphale to stop staring at him and actually go into the hallway.

He turns back to the boys and leans down - there is quite a ways to lean down, because of the heels - until his face is close to Warlock's. "Now," he says, in a low voice that will not carry, "what is it Adam lies to your parents about?"

Two minutes later Crowley has learned that Warlock has several tattoos, that Wensleydale Photoshopped them out of some group beach photos for Facebook (so his allowance wouldn't get cut off), and that during Thaddeus Dowling's one visit to the flat, Adam lied and said the tray of earrings in the bathroom was his. Apparently Warlock wears his hair down when he sees his father, to hide empty ear piercings.

Crowley refrains from asking, "That's it?" He had been worried there was a body. Maybe Aziraphale had been bigger influence than he'd thought.

When they finally get back to the flat, Aziraphale does take Crowley's hair down. They do some other stuff first, but he also brushes the knots out, after.

Crowley hangs the dress on the closet door where he can look at it while he drinks coffee the next morning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley should have looked both ways before crossing the street. They also should have tried to get discorporated somewhat less publicly. Heaven and Hell do tend to notice that sort of thing.

**4.**

"Well, this is a predicament."

Crowley wrinkles his nose. "Adam can fix it."

Aziraphale turns to look at him. Since they were both hit, and have both suffered the indignity of discorporation, they can see each other. Which is convenient. It means that when Crowley glances sideways at him from behind his sunglasses, he can see the entirety of Aziraphale's expression.

"He can fix _us,"_ Crowley amends. He sticks his hands into his pockets. Or as much as his pockets will allow him to. His spectral pockets, anyway. It's all very disorienting, being discorporated. Aziraphale has not yet grown used to it and hopes not to have continued opportunities to.

"I am genuinely more concerned about the fact that we were discorporated on Oxford Street, Crowley. There are scores of humans here!"

"Bodies are gone, no one'll believe them. They'll all convince themselves they don't believe it either." Crowley turns on his heel, away from the scene of the accident, and begins slinking off somewhere less crowded.

With several looks over his shoulder at the scene they're leaving behind, Aziraphale reluctantly follows. The first time he'd been discorporated, back during almost-Armageddon, he hadn't been able to see anything around him except when he was inhabiting Madame Tracy - that had been quite the trial. Now, unfortunately, he can say he's gotten the knack of it, and Crowley too. Otherwise making their way down the sidewalk would be much more complicated.

Aziraphale catches up with Crowley and says, "The front of that car is smashed in, Crowley, even if there's no-" He gestures broadly. "Physical evidence remaining."

"Modern cars." Crowley sniffs. "Collapse like paper bags."

"To avoid smattering their drivers against the steering wheels, as I understand it," Aziraphale says.

He has recently had tea with Pepper, who is spending the week in Adam and Warlock's flat while she job hunts. Pepper - Aziraphale thinks, privately, knowing better than to say this aloud - knows much more about cars than Crowley does. And although she had given the Bentley an openly covetous look as they'd walked past it, she had a lot to say about modern safety features. Once they'd been out of the Bentley's radius, of course.

"Have I ever gotten us smattered against the steering wheel," Crowley begins, reflexively, and throws up both hands in the same instant. "No, no-"

"As a matter of fact-"

"That was _your_ fault, distracting me." Crowley takes an abrupt turn off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic.

"You asked to be distracted," Aziraphale says, quickly, walking faster so as not to lose him.

Of course this time it does not matter that they're walking in front of speeding cars. The metal, the drivers, the passengers all pass through them harmlessly. One or two people get a shudder or a sudden spark of joy.

It had mattered more than anything approximately eight minutes ago. When neither of them had looked both ways before stepping off the sidewalk and both of them had landed directly in the path of a brand-new car. Which had in fact crumpled spectacularly after hitting them. It had ground to a halt in the several seconds it'd taken for Aziraphale and Crowley's bodies to vanish.

In the next several seconds, while their spirits wobbled back to their… well, not their feet, but approximately their feet. While their spirits wobbled back to approximately their feet, the driver had stumbled out of the car and looked very shocked at having had such a bad accident for no visible reason.

"I'm going to have to go back and do something for the driver," Aziraphale says, mostly to himself.

Crowley spins around and starts walking backwards. Both his eyebrows have jumped up above his glasses. "He hit us, you are not making it up to the human who discorporated us."

They have made it across the street. Crowley turns again, continuing to maneuver backwards through a crowd of people who have just come down with an inexplicable chill. They are moving vaguely in the direction of Adam's flat, although if they don't go down into a Tube station soon it is going to take them forever to walk there.

"We stepped into traffic, Crowley."

"He was going too fast."

Aziraphale looks up at the sunny sky to see whether it is also raining. He looks back and forth in case there are pigs flying through the air, and he looks at the ground to ensure it has not opened beneath them. He clasps his hands together and murmurs, "Those in glass houses."

"Know how to build proper glass walls, don't they?"

"That doesn't make any sense," Aziraphale says.

Crowley's entire body grimaces with his face. His ankle wobbles on his next step and to prevent him from falling over, the visual of his legs momentarily vanishes. He even reaches out as if to grab Aziraphale's arm, which he misses doing by an inch, since Aziraphale has come to a halt at the look on his face. Really, it's an overreaction of theatric proportions. And he's about to say so, when.

"You cannot expect a demon to remember proverbs, Aziraphale."

"Michael!"

Aziraphale turns to see what Crowley is seeing, even though he already knows what Crowley is seeing.

Michael raises one eyebrow at him. At them. At their discorporated spirits oh _no_ this is terrible.

Crowley's spectral hand wraps around Aziraphale's spectral arm. The touch sparks through him. Makes him feel more solid. Not in truth, but sometimes feeling something is enough of a truth on its own. Also, being solid would mean people would start bumping into them again, which would be inconvenient. And while Aziraphale is running this reaction through his head Michael is still standing there, hands folded, staring.

Aziraphale plasters a smile onto his face.

Michael does not. Michael tilts her head. "What," she says, her voice dripping condescension, "are _you_ doing here?"

For the briefest of moments Aziraphale wonders if Michael actually expects them to explain their presence in London. Or maybe she meant _what_ are they doing there, not _you,_ and put the italics in the wrong place?

Then, from behind them, "Go fuck yourzzelf."

"Lord Beelzebub," Crowley says, stiff. Not bowing.

Aziraphale briefly casts his eyes up. When he looks back down he realizes Michael is in the middle of the same motion. They regard each other coolly while Crowley pulls Aziraphale to the edge of the sidewalk, turning so Beelzebub is on their left and he can keep an eye on her. The sidewalk crowd begins to thin, too, as the smell of sizzling ozone sparks at Michael's end and a waft of burning sulfur drifts from Beelzebub's. In a moment the four of them are totally alone.

Which is not where Aziraphale wants to be.

"Don't let Crowley and I interrupt your … tête-à-tête," he says.

Both Crowley and Beelzebub give him an identical look of what he's going to call horror-disdain, which he will have to remember to inform Crowley about later.

At his right Michael's face goes placid. "The public nature of your incident set off certain alarms in Heaven. Regrettably, I am here for you, Aziraphale."

"Regrettably," Beelzebub mimics. Her voice has the thinnest thread of what might be called amusement in it. Crowley's expression of horror-disdain drops the disdain part.

Michael's placid look drops about ten degrees into below-freezing. Beelzebub slinks over to stand next to her, and across from them. Michael holds perfectly still, but Aziraphale has been put through tactical aggression rehearsal before (once, anyway, when his sword had still been his sword) and knows what it looks like when an Archangel is prepared to manifest a bladed weapon. Beelzebub is not accompanied by flies today, instead attired in that strange hat, but projects an aura of menace regardless.

"Crowley and I actually have this situation under control," Aziraphale says.

All three of the other beings present look at him in a way that clearly communicates, _News to me._

Unfortunately Aziraphale knows everything he's done to deserve this and cannot protest. He can, however, deflect. "We already have a plan to handle our discorporations, no need for either of you to - for either of you."

"You discorporated in front of forty-three and a half witnesses, Aziraphale," Michael says.

"Forty-four," Beelzebub corrects, one eyebrow raised. "Set off forty-four alarmzz in Hell. Dagon counted."

"Gerald Westwood-Smythe was not paying full attention."

Crowley's hand twitches in his, and Aziraphale does the disincorporated equivalent of squeezing back. Speaking lowly, Crowley says, "They would probably notice if we left now."

Half-distracted by wondering why some of Beelzebub's s's buzz and others don't, Aziraphale whispers back, "Can't lead them to Adam's door, my dear."

"Countzz as half a person, then," Beelzebub mutters. "Didn't expect that from you, Michael."

Michael is wearing the same resigned look that she normally settles into a third of the way through any presentation of Gabriel's. It is bland, and unoffensive, and Aziraphale knows what it looks like while a being wishes they were somewhere else entirely. "Half of a witnessing, Beelzebub, not half a person."

"Oh." Beelzebub rolls her eyes. "You were almozzt interesting."

"I'm sure I would prefer not to be."

"Typical angel."

Another twitch of Crowley's hand. It feels like the equivalent of a groan, which Crowley is audibly restraining from when he says, "I really don't want this to be happening."

It's loud enough that the Archangel and the Prince of Hell stop bickering. They both return their attention to Aziraphale and Crowley, which Aziraphale himself wants to groan about. But he never would've made it as far as he did if he went about groaning whenever he wanted to, so.

Crowley slouches. "Look, nobody will think anything of it. Humans can convince themselves out of or into bloody anything. I've watched them do it, it was my job to do it, I was good at it."

"That'zz debatable."

"I was good at it," Crowley repeats, emphatically. "And nobody believes in miracles anymore."

It is difficult not to wince at that, just a little. Aziraphale has done more mixing amongst humans than any other angel, he's sure, and he knows what Earth is like. He also knows that if confronted with the full force of a miracle most people _will_ believe. Historically speaking, anyway. Which is not a point in their favor, so he does not say it, even though Michael looks put off by Crowley's pronouncement.

Beelzebub barks out a laugh, looks surprised about it, and shakes her head. "Tell the angelzz again that nobody believes in miracles, Crowley."

"No," Crowley says.

The aura of menace on the sidewalk increases several notches, although Beelzebub looks Crowley up and down as if nothing has ever bored her more. "Izz that so?"

Crowley opens his mouth, pauses, and then says, "Yep?" with only the tiniest question mark at the end.

For a long, tortured moment, Crowley and the Prince of Hell face each other on the London sidewalk. Crowley looks very serious. Beelzebub looks like someone who was just stirred from hibernation for something that absolutely does not pertain to her, but there is a glint at the edge of her eyes that suggests the manifestation of sharp things, if not a flaming sword.

Aziraphale has time to remember that while he is sure Beelzebub was not an Archangel, Before, that does not mean she might not have been … something else. Satan had commanded the admiration of all the Heavenly Host. From all of the Spheres.

Then Beelzebub leans back. "Whatever. Stay discorporated, it'zz no skin off my nose."

"You're just going to leave him like that?" Michael asks.

Aziraphale blinks.

"Not my problem," Beelzebub declares.

"When Aziraphale has been reincorporated, that will leave Heaven with one angel more than Hell has demons." Michael sounds like she is speaking to a recalcitrant child.

"Excuse me," Aziraphale says, while Crowley says, "Hey!"

"Demonzz don't need numberzz to beat angelzz," Beelzebub says, voice decidedly more buzzy than before. That cloud of menace increases. Azirahaple is tempted to step backwards off the curb. "But if you think I'm scared of the creampuff-"

_"Excuse me,"_ Aziraphale says, again.

"I will take Aziraphale up for reincorporation and you can decide what to do with the demon Crowley on your own." Michael is in no way addressing Aziraphale. Instead she is doing her best mirror of Beelzebub's scowl. It looks like there is a faint glare of light all around her shoulders, arms, and hands. Again, Aziraphale is reminded of tactical aggression rehearsal.

"No you can't," Crowley protests, while Aziraphale is frozen. "We said we have it handled. Buzz off."

The tension between Beelzebub and Michael cracks down the middle. Beelzebub's eyes narrow. "What did you say?"

"Can't punish someone without a body, Beelzebub," Michael murmurs.

Which is … strange.

Crowley grins to show teeth and says, "Said, _buzz off,"_ in a slightly manic but gleeful voice. Without bodies for either of them it's a faint impression, but Aziraphale feels somewhat like he does when Crowley's gunned the Bentley to make it through a red light.

"You juzzzt wait and see the body we've got lined up for you, Crowley."

Michael looks smug.

_Oh,_ Aziraphale thinks.

And then his mouth pops open and he says, "Oh! You think that if you reincorporate us, you can give us bodies Heaven and Hell will be able to destroy."

Michael presses her lips together. Beelzebub rolls her eyes.

Crowley screws his face into something between offended and disappointed. It is pure Nanny Ashtoreth. "You thought that'd work, did you?"

No one here is displaying wings, but Aziraphale is sure that if Michael was, hers would be rustling behind her, and raised defensively. "It's simply our responsibility to manage _reckless_ agents and their extremely public mishaps."

"Can it, cloud brain," Beelzebub says. She actually yawns. Boredom or bluster? "Your brilliant plan," and here she says _brilliant plan_ in a high-pitched voice and lilting cadence, while Michael's eyes flash, "didn't work. Knew it wouldn't, told you so."

"Beg pardon," Aziraphale says. A sliver of horror-disdain is back on Crowley's face. "You two planned this together?"

"Together," Michael says, crisply, "would be overstating Beelzebub's contributions."

"Like you mind my contributionzz," Beelzebub sneers.

The disdain drops from Crowley's expression again. Aziraphale supposes he must look quite the same.

"Placing our _professional relationship_ aside," Michael says, ignoring Beelzebub smirking, "you can't be surprised, Aziraphale. You are a rogue agent. Besides, unless you intend to float around disembodied for all time, you will have to come with me."

"Can't cause much trouble this way." Beelzebub looks Crowley up and down.

"Need I remind you that Heaven didn't help me before, either," Aziraphale says. "Managed well enough on my own. Also, I am not a rogue agent. I am not an agent at all. Heaven made clear that I am no longer in its employ."

Nobody says anything for a beat.

Crowley grins, slow, at the silence. "Thought we were immune to holy water and Hellfire _and_ couldn't put ourselves back together if we needed to?"

Now Beelzebub's expression thins into something stony. "This is boring. Don't set off any more alarms, Crowley. Your car isn't immune to destruction."

Crowley glares daggers at her. There was no tactical aggression rehearsal before the first Fall but he is doing a mighty impression of it.

"I suppose you're going to threaten my bookshop, Michael. You should remember we put that and Crowley's car back together, too." Aziraphale sighs. He is certain that Adam won't mind them taking the credit.

"No," Michael says, thoughtfully.

Aziraphale freezes again. A thoughtful Michael is the worst kind of Michael. (The best kind of Michael being, of course, the one who is unaware that a Principality is even in the room.)

"Expose yourselves to humanity and face the consequences, Aziraphale," Michael says, slow and measured. "You must recall how humans react to the confirmed presence of angels. If you want to let humans know that angels and demons walk among them, the fallout will come to you."

Beelzebub blinks, then lets out an eerie cackle. It lasts for about two seconds. "Putting somebody else in charge of it? That's diabolical, Michael."

"I am not interested in your commentary."

"It was a compliment, enjoy it, I don't give them out often," Beelzebub says, flashing her teeth. There might be too many of them for a human-shaped mouth, but Aziraphale doesn't have time to count. She looks at Crowley. "All right. Same goes for you. Fuck up again and you can deal with the humanzz wanting to summon you for every little thing."

The concrete goes liquid under Beelzebub's feet. She descends, swallowed up by a faint red glow, and the sidewalk reforms solid as ever where she'd been standing.

"Dramatic," Michael murmurs, under her breath. She smooths her jacket out and folds her hands together. "Aziraphale. I trust I will not be responding to this set of alarms again."

"Absolutely not. Might as well disconnect them."

Michael raises one eyebrow. "I also trust that I will not hear you spreading … rumors. About anything you think you might have heard today."

Aziraphale turns to look at Crowley, who is visibly restraining laughter. His shoulders shake. In their spectral form it makes his whole image go wavy around the edges. Aziraphale shakes his head, turns back to Michael, and says, "What could I possibly say, and to who?"

Crowley opens his mouth, probably to say, _I on the other hand could say quite a lot,_ or something to that equivalent. Probably something worse. Aziraphale elbows him in the gut. Because it just means slamming his thoughts up against Crowley's the gesture makes Crowley's image momentarily vanish and then reform, sputtering, a couple of inches away.

Aziraphale beams at Michael. "It's been so nice to chat, but we really must be going. Come along, Crowley."

They've only just turned their backs on her when the smell of sizzling ozone is back. Just for a second. The street is momentarily brighter than midday bright and then the holy light is gone. Aziraphale glances over his shoulder before they round the corner, but there isn't a scorch mark to be seen.

"Do you think Michael was genuinely worried about the impression she and Beelzebub gave us?"

"Angel, when Adam fixes us, I'm asking him to wipe everything we just saw from my brain." He pauses. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Except telling Beelzebub to buzz off."

The next street up is crowded even for London. Full of people taking the long way around a side street that a moment ago it'd seemed imperative to avoid. Aziraphale gives up and lets people stream through him since the alternative is walking through traffic. It leaves behind some strange impressions but nothing bad enough to set off divine or diabolical alarms, he's sure.

"Not everything," he agrees. "We must remember they have alarms for getting discorporated in front of witnesses."

The first time Aziraphale had been discorporated, he'd also been sent back to Heaven in the same moment. Perhaps it was different because of that. Of course, the first angels he'd found had been the battalion. All the usual desks had been unstaffed. Everybody off polishing their swords, he supposed.

"You know, angel, they probably think now that we've been getting zapped and fixing ourselves for six thousand years." Crowley is grinning again.

"I did imply that you had unimaginable abilities while I was in Hell."

"Wish I could listen to whatever Beelzebub's gonna say to Dagon about this."

"To be a fly on the wall?" Aziraphale asks, innocently.

Crowley gives him a flat look.

Aziraphale smiles and lets the crowd guide them into a crosswalk. "We should probably take the long way to Adam's, dear. Just in case."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have been around for a long time. As a result, they have some very specific fantasies to roleplay. It's just too bad those fantasies didn't include a step for Aziraphale to proofread his summoning circle work.

**5.**

"There's no reason we can't come to some sort of an … arrangement," Crowley says, eminently reasonable and specifically lowercase. He is sprawled out, sitting nearly sideways with one arm along the back of the chair and one leg tossed over the chair's arm, so his thighs are spread open. "Surely there's things even angels want."

"I'm perfectly capable of securing the things I need for myself," Aziraphale says. He turns a page in the book.

"Yeah?" Crowley leans forward, so his sunglasses slide down his nose, and he leers at Aziraphale with yellow eyes. His pupils are like slits. They widen into small dark pools when Aziraphale pauses to lift his head and make eye contact. "Can I watch?"

"Honestly," Aziraphale mutters. He turns back to the book.

But it's difficult to hide that his attention is no longer fully on the text.

When he'd read the summoning incantation, ten minutes ago, he hadn't expected Crowley to show up looking like… Aziraphale wants to say _sin,_ except he thinks that would say more about himself than about Crowley.

Crowley has let his hair grow out since Aziraphale last saw him (Wednesday). It just brushes his shoulders and is half pulled-back, like he'd worn it during Nanny Ashtoreth's days off. He is in tight jeans that fall below his hips and can't possibly have even a suggestion of pockets to them, those seams have got to be fake. Aziraphale can tell that his jeans are so low because he's wearing a black silk shirt which is already undone.

_'Hey,'_ Crowley had said at his appearance in the circle, to Aziraphale's startled stuttering. _'You're the one who called up a demon without asking first. Five more minutes and you would've gotten a lot … more.'_

Now Crowley sighs. "What can I say, angel? I'm bored. You trapped me in here without any entertainment." 

He gestures at the circle on the floor, the one ringed around him, keeping him stuck fast and safely away from Aziraphale. When he moves his arm, it makes his shirt gape open a little more, flash a little more of his stomach and chest.

Aziraphale inhales.

They're in the upstairs portion of the bookshop, and Aziraphale has already moved most of the furniture out of the way. Except for the chair. He'd needed the space to draw the circle. It is a rather impressive circle, if he does say so himself. There's space enough to lay down in it - if that's the kind of thing a hellish or celestial being might be into - and Aziraphale has made some careful edits to its composition for this evening. It wouldn't do to create a genuinely divine trap.

"I could read to you," Aziraphale says. He gives the book in his hands a meaningful look.

"From that?" Crowley raises an eyebrow. He pushes his glasses back up his face. "No thanks."

"It has your name in it," Aziraphale reminds him. He turns back a few pages, as if returning to a spell that actually exists. "I thought you would be interested in that."

"There are more interesting things here," Crowley says. He runs his eyes over Aziraphale only briefly and then skips his attention to the bookcases.

The items up here are ones Aziraphale doesn't even want attempted customers looking at, let alone possibly touching. The shelves contain titles like the one in his hands: _A Brief Review Of Demons, The Calling Thereof._ It's almost complete nonsense, of course. Crowley's name certainly isn't in there. Crowley's name is in exactly three summoning books, and Aziraphale owns the only remaining copies. Not that he's told Crowley that. It would worry him.

Aziraphale had picked this book up in the fourteenth century, which he also hasn't told Crowley because Crowley would've rejected it out of hand. But as a prop it works. It's a slim volume with a battered blue cover, and if Aziraphale accidentally drops it, it will be no big tragedy. He is not planning on dropping it but he hasn't ruled out that, ah, his passions may overtake him at some point. Soon.

Hopefully soon.

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asks, watching Crowley examine his shelves.

When he'd summoned the demon, his plan (as they'd vaguely brainstormed together Wednesday, three days ago now) had been to ferret out what chaotic menace Crowley was currently getting up to. And there had been a rather noticeable uptick in issues at the Tube stations around the bookshop lately. But when Aziraphale had tried asking about it, Crowley had just said, _'Like I'd tell you that, you've got to make it worth my while, angel,'_ and then tossed himself into the chair.

They haven't planned beyond that. The point is to be spontaneous.

So Aziraphale is not expecting Crowley to run his nails along the pale line of his throat. He is not expecting Crowley to look at him over his sunglasses again, pupils still dilated. He is not expecting Crowley to say, voice low, "Lots of occult books on these shelves. Almost like … an obsession. Not the proper thing for a Principality, is it?"

Aziraphale bites his lip, and a smile stretches Crowley's mouth.

"It might not go well for you, if that kind of news got out."

"Are - Are you threatening to blackmail me, from inside a summoning circle?" Aziraphale asks, clearing his throat. He is surprised to find that his skin is warming. It's impossible to pay attention to the book, now, even to keep up the pretense that there may be a spell inside that could manipulate Crowley further. But he can't bring himself to close the cover, not yet. That would make things far too easy. For Crowley.

"Ohh… blackmail's a strong word."

"Besides, who would you tell?" Aziraphale makes an effort to turn another page. 

"All these books?" Crowley's eyes track Aziraphale as he takes a few steps forward, following the curve of the circle. "Demons don't like having our names spread around, you know."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. It makes Crowley's smile slide into a pleased grin. Aziraphale does his best to keep his expression disapproving. "Cuts down on your cachet, I imagine."

"I don't have a problem with cachet," Crowley says.

"Oh? Are you that fearsome? Should I be quaking in my shoes?"

Crowley wraps one hand over the back of the chair and hauls himself upright for a moment. "You summoned me and you don't even remember who I am?"

"I've heard some things."

"I instigated Original Sin, angel," says Crowley, who has apparently decided he does not need to put anything special into his backstory. "I helped bring about the destruction of Camelot. You should be worried. Soft thing like you."

Aziraphale wants to say that he's certain Arthur did not, unfortunately, need help with the destruction of Camelot, but he holds his tongue. He lifts his chin slightly and takes several more measured, deliberate steps around the circle. Crowley takes his glasses off to set them beneath the chair. His pupils are still bold lines across his eyes.

"This soft thing," Aziraphale says, "has got you secured in a holy circle. So I would consider who you try to insult, Serpent."

Crowley lets his head dip back when Aziraphale passes behind him. His throat stretches. His black shirt falls off his shoulder and reveals most of his chest. The way he's lying in the chair makes it impossible, when Aziraphale glances at him, not to notice the pale expanse of his stomach or the way those ridiculous jeans ride low on his hips. It's indecent, is what it is.

The jeans, in addition to being absurdly low, are also very… snug.

As soon as Aziraphale is in front of him again, Crowley rolls out of his chair. He lands on one foot and uses it to lever himself forward. In two steps he's at the edge of the circle and just an inch from Aziraphale. Who is abruptly frozen.

"Soft little angel," Crowley murmurs. His eyes are fixed on Aziraphale's mouth. "What exactly do you want, that you've got to trap a demon to get it?"

"Want?" Aziraphale breathes.

"Desire," Crowley says, placing the slightest hiss into the center of the word. He lets his eyes drift up to Aziraphale's. It feels like heat, gently laid onto Aziraphale's skin. Like the brush of fingers on his face. "There must be something. Something only someone like me can help you with."

Aziraphale closes the book.

"Tell me what it is?" Another suggestion of a hiss.

"I'll have you know, I am conducting divine business," Aziraphale says. His voice only shakes a little, but from the way it makes Crowley sway, it's more than audible. "My superiors would be just as happy with a discorporated demon as they would be with a thorough accounting of your recent actions."

Crowley grins again. "Don't think you have what it takes to discorporate me."

"Watch your step, then. If you cross the line-"

"What kind of line is that?" Crowley asks. He is rather openly staring at Aziraphale, and his eyes are not on Aziraphale's face.

So it is lost on him that Aziraphale glances up and back down, dismissive. Aziraphale tries to sink the contempt into his tone instead. And also a measure of warning. "There are some nasty sigils in this circle. Do think before you try anything."

"Anything?" Crowley looks delighted. Aziraphale must not have put enough admonishment into his voice. Or maybe too much. Crowley rolls his shoulders back and that black silk shirt slides off his arms to pool on the floor. He laughs, next, and Aziraphale yanks his eyes back up from where he had obviously been staring at Crowley's… ribs. His stomach.

And, all right, his hips.

The demon puts all his weight on one leg, so those hips cock to the side.

"Principality," he purrs, so Aziraphale's breath hitches. "Remember what I said about us demons, not liking to have our names spread around? We're a lot nastier than some pretty sigils."

"I don't." Aziraphale swallows. His hands are clutching the book very tightly, now, and his mouth is dry. He resolutely squares his shoulders, but his voice doesn't quite match his posture when he says, "I don't find myself threatened, Serpent."

There _are_ dangerous books in Aziraphale's collection, looming at them from the shelves. The one in his hand is not one of them. But he thinks, if some other demon showed up and attempted to menace him, that he would not be without his defenses.

Though, of course, it's not a theory he's ever had to put to the test…

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to meet his eyes again and then spreads his hands. "If word got out about your collection, you might find someone more frightening than me at your doorstep."

"Presupposing that you are frightening," Aziraphale says, valiantly.

The amusement in Crowley's eyes somewhat cuts the menace in his threat, but not entirely. "Discorporate me and I'll just end up in Hell, telling everyone exactly how I got there."

"What, by being summoned and entrapped?"

Crowley laughs and tells him the cross street the bookshop sits at.

Aziraphale falters.

"It's not so hard. You aren't the only one who's heard things, Mr. Fell." And doesn't he look like the cat who got the cream at the expression on Aziraphale's face.

Aziraphale hesitates (deliberately).

He looks away, lets his face turn, and when he glances back Crowley's eyes are on his mouth again. So he's watching when Aziraphale wets his lips, and Aziraphale gets to see his pupils widen another sliver. Gets to see the way Crowley's throat moves when Aziraphale shifts, allowing nervousness to seep into his movements, allowing himself to fidget because it means he gets to watch Crowley watching him do it.

"I seem to have gotten in over my head," the angel says, to the demon in his summoning circle.

Crowley _smirks._ It lights up his face and shoots straight through Aziraphale's gut. He says nothing. He waits for Aziraphale to speak.

"What," and oh, how Aziraphale is anticipating the answer to this question, "do you recommend I do?"

"Lucky for you, I specialize in trouble."

Crowley begins to turn on his heel. Except his foot strays just a fraction of an inch. His toes cross the edge of the circle.

And Aziraphale has clearly missed something in his careful edits to the symbols, because there is a flash of light that sends him reeling backwards into a bookcase. It takes several long moments but he does manage to blink his eyes clear.

"Crowley? Crowely, I'm so sorry, I must have missed some… thing," he mumbles, trailing off.

_"Do you think?"_ Crowley's voice snaps. Entirely without the aid of Crowely's body.

Because the circle is empty. The circle is glowing, where Crowley had touched it, and it is also empty.

"Oh." Aziraphale holds the book to his chest. "I thought I'd made sure those symbols were gibberish. It was only supposed to call you here. Not bind you or, er, do this."

"I," Crowley says, "am taking away _all_ your grimoires, angel, as soon as I have hands again."

"That's hardly fair! This was your idea, my dear."

"My idea!"

"You did say you actually wanted to be summoned, even though I said-"

"You sssaid," Crowley hisses, "you knew what you were doing with that circle!"

"Perhaps now is not the time to cast blame," Aziraphale declares.

Crowley makes several sounds that used to be rude words in languages that are no longer spoken, and Aziraphale pretends that he doesn't remember what they mean.

He'd always thought it was terribly inconvenient that they couldn't see each other while discorporated, unless they were both in that unfortunate state. But at the moment a tiny speck of him is grateful for it. Aziraphale can too well imagine the look on Crowley's face and doesn't need it confirmed. "I'm going to call Adam," he says. "He was very clear that we should call ahead if this happened again."

A simmering silence from the rest of the room. Aziraphale resists the urge to plead his case again and walks down the stairs instead.

He carries the book with him and fiddles with smoothing out some a few pages while he's on the phone with Adam. It must have been the cursive Enochian, he shouldn't have tried to use it when it'd been so long since he'd needed to be that formal. He should have just skipped that ring of symbols entirely. It would have looked unfinished, but Crowley wouldn't have minded… 

"Good news," he says, when he gets back upstairs. "Adam picked up on the first ring. He says he can come over at seven. Do you think we should offer him a ride home after?"

"We," Crowley says, at Aziraphale's left. "Going to offer him your bus pass?"

Wincing, Aziraphale starts to say, "Dearest, I did think I had appropriately muddied the sigils for-"

Then he feels a strange _ping_ all the way down his left side. Like hitting his funny bone if his funny bone had been his entire body and also somehow only half of his body at the same time. He takes that to mean Crowley bumped into him and he finally does drop the book in the resulting shudder.

The feeling immediately stops.

There's only silence as Aziraphale busies himself picking the book up and brushing it off.

"Well," he says. He spends a sliver of effort to heal a scuff on the cover that's been there since he got it. It keeps his eyes down. "I - I am sorry, my dear, I-"

"Angel," Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale stops. "What was that?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Aziraphale says.

Crowley makes a little humming sound and that feeling, that struck-sideways feeling, comes back. It radiates out through Aziraphale's left hip this time, as if Crowley had brushed his hand there and let it linger.

Aziraphale clutches the book very tight to avoid dropping it a second time. Crowley hums again, his voice in Aziraphale's left ear. That feeling shifts down and across to ring out from Aziraphale's thigh. It thrums down his leg and through his hip and over his stomach and Aziraphale realizes that he's let out a small moan. The noise Crowley is making in his ear is now a deeply satisfied one.

"Don't know?" Crowley asks. His touch moves, and Aziraphale is trying not to shake. "Need me to explain?"

"Crowley."

"There's hours left to fill, angel. One of us still has a body," Crowley says, eminently reasonable. "Be a shame not to do something, after all this work."

"Do you… Do you want to, ah, continue…"

"Later," Crowley says. Several points on Aziraphale's back ring out, like Crowley has pressed his fingertips to Aziraphale's spine. "When I have hands again."

Aziraphale shivers.

***

"All you need to know," Crowley tells Adam, at five minutes past seven, "is that it's Aziraphale's fault."

"That is actually even more than I need to know," Adam assures them, his expression pained.

Aziraphale doesn't protest that it was a mistake. He's too busy being grateful that when Adam waves his hand, Crowley appears back in his body fully dressed. The black silk shirt is buttoned and it's not possible to see how suggestive the jeans are. Also, his sunglasses are back on, even though he wasn't wearing them when he discorporated.

"Right as rain!" Aziraphale says. And, before Crowley can say anything, "Adam, dear, would you like a ride home?"

Both of Adam's eyebrows go up and he instantly says "Yes," even while he's glancing over at Crowley to read Crowley's reaction to that offer.

"No problem," Crowley says, blandly. He walks across the shop floor like his body has never experienced tension once, not in six thousand years. It probably isn't obvious if you haven't been watching him walk for approximately that length of time. At least, Aziraphale hopes it's not.

"Really?" Adam seems a tinge anxious. "You're sure, because I can-"

"Yeah, take the front seat," Crowley tells him.

Aziraphale hasn't ridden in the back seat of the Bentley … ever. He opens his mouth, but Adam looks so suddenly excited that he can't bring himself to say anything but, "Is there anywhere you need to stop on the way home?"

They don't make any stops. But Adam does take a photo of all three of them in the car together and texts it to Pepper.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale pick up that roleplay scenario where they left off. And they don't even come close to getting discorporated!

**+1**

Aziraphale locks the shop door and turns the sign in the window to _closed._

In his ear, a voice says, "Oh, angel. As if doors could keep me away from you."

He holds onto himself with his fingertips and manages not to shiver. "Ah," he says, taking a breath. He glances at the window. In the glass he can just see the outline of Crowley's reflection at his shoulder. The demon is staring at him. "Serpent. I suppose I should have anticipated your return."

It's a Thursday night. Aziraphale had genuinely not been expecting it to be tonight, but he hadn't wanted to know. He'd told Crowley he wanted it to be a surprise. And. Well. Having only seen Crowley a few hours ago, this was certainly a surprise. Not an unpleasant one, mind. A couple of hours ago Crowley had been lounging behind the shop counter and telling curious customers he didn't work there, sending them over to Aziraphale with a wink and a smirk.

This is a wonderful way to make things up to him.

"You did make a deal with me," Crowley murmurs. One finger trails over Aziraphale's spine and he laughs when Aziraphale does shiver this time. "I'm here to collect."

"As I recall, I never actually agreed to … terms."

"Terms. That's cute."

Aziraphale slowly turns around. Crowley takes a sliding step backward. His hair is still longish, half pulled-back. Aziraphale wonders what it'll take for Crowley to let him take it down. But it's too early for that. 

Since he's literally only just closed, the shop still looks like it is open for potential business. When Aziraphale meets his eyes, though, Crowley sweeps his hand up and snaps his fingers. Almost all the lights go off. Except the one just above Aziraphale's head.

Crowley is wearing all black again. Snakeskin boots with an underlying sheen of red, snug black jeans. His black silk shirt is actually done up, though, and this time he has on a tie. With Aziraphale watching he takes his sunglasses off and lets them vanish into thin air. He drags yellow eyes over Aziraphale, from head to toe. Aziraphale lifts his chin and squares his shoulders slightly for the examination.

"How long did it take you to fill out the paperwork for this corporation, hmm?" Aziraphale asks.

"Like what you see?" Crowley leans all his weight onto one leg, to make his hips tilt. "When I told them what I had to get back to, they put a rush on it."

"Yes, I can tell," Aziraphale sniffs.

Actual surprise creeps into Crowley's face. One of his eyebrows goes up and the corner of his mouth twitches. Aziraphale gives him a small smile and laces his fingers together demurely, tilting his head just a little. Crowley smoothes his expression out. He clicks his tongue against his teeth.

"Bold for somebody who owes me half a bargain."

"If you informed Hell of what happened, then I hardly think I owe you."

"Told them I helped an angel out of a tight spot and got discorporated for my trouble. They think you're beside yourself, worrying when I'm coming back to get what's mine. I lied. I covered for you, like I said." Crowley pauses. "What did you tell Upstairs about your end of things?"

That's an unexpected question. Aziraphale considers, and while he's thinking, Crowley starts moving around the shop. He skims fingertips around the edge of a table, briefly touches the end of a bookcase, stops at the white-winged mug Aziraphale had left on the counter. He picks it up and takes a sip, almost immediately recoiling, like he'd somehow managed to forget that Aziraphale's preferred brand of cocoa was rather bitter. Even allowing for marshmallows.

Dark chocolate is just more flavorful. Aziraphale pretends like he doesn't see Crowley trying to get the taste out of his mouth and says, "Well, I told them that I got nothing of use out of you and you managed to discorporate yourself."

"Low."

"Accurate," Aziraphale says. He gets a glance that promises he's going to pay for that later. "What exactly do you want for your troubles, Serpent?"

Crowley leans back against the shop counter. He stretches both arms out along its length and crosses his legs. Drags his eyes back over Aziraphale. "Well, first, that jacket's got to go."

"As if I would," Aziraphale starts.

Crowley swivels one wrist, fingers snapping. The jacket is gone. At Aziraphale's admittedly undignified squawk, he points at the coat rack in the corner, where the jacket is hanging unharmed. "We can do that with the rest of it," Crowley says, quiet. "If you want to do things the hard way."

He glances down and then back up, looking at Crowley through his eyelashes. "What's the other option?"

A grin, and Crowley's pupils widening slightly. "The fun way, angel."

"Dare I ask your definition of fun?"

"Must have a clue by now." Crowley nods up at the ceiling, toward the second floor. "That collection. You must know more about demons than anybody else on Earth."

"Present company excluded."

"I do not pay that much attention to my coworkers."

Crowley pushes against the counter with both hands to lever himself upright. He lands with his weight on one foot and swings the other around in front, so his hips sway as he crosses the room to Aziraphale. There's hardly any space between them but he takes his time crossing anyway, his feet coming close but not crossing the ring of light around Aziraphale.

"Do you ever take that bowtie off? Or would you like some help?"

Aziraphale looks back at the locked door and when he returns his attention to Crowley, the windows have gently darkened, so the contrast between the one light above his head and the rest of the room is starker. He slowly begins to undo his bowtie on his own, without assistance. "I would like to state that I am very fond of this clothing and would be put out if it was damaged."

Crowley smiles. In the shadow, his teeth look sharp. "Is that what you're worried about?"

Aziraphale finishes pulling the bowtie off. Lets himself fiddle with it. Watches Crowley's eyes track the nervous movement of his fingers. When he's sure Crowley is about to speak, he holds the length of fabric out. Crowley's pupils widen a fraction. But he reaches into the light to pluck the bowtie from Aziraphale's hand. When he folds it in half and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans Aziraphale has to suppress a smile.

"Do I look worried?"

"Eager," Crowley tells him. He starts to walk along the edge of the circle of light, making sure not to cross into it.

"Hardly!" Aziraphale twists to follow his progress but Crowley is too quick. He keeps himself just at the edge of Aziraphale's vision.

"You radiate light, angel. It's easy to feel once you've got the trick of it. Oh, don't look at me like that. Hiding yourself from humans is easy, hiding yourself from m-" Crowley stops, clears his throat, and Aziraphale wishes very badly that he could see the expression on Crowley's face. "-from demons. That's harder. We're the same stock, after all."

Something in Aziraphale's chest squeezes. He decides to twist in the opposite direction, which means he manages to turn just in time to have Crowley in front of him again.

"Am I that easy to read?" Aziraphale asks.

For a second Crowley looks surprised. His eyes gleam, nearly gold, and his pupils cut thick lines across them. Aziraphale lifts his hand, and Crowley catches his wrist. His touch is hot on Aziraphale's skin. He holds Aziraphale's arm in place, looks at him for a moment, then reaches forward with his free hand to start undoing the buttons on Aziraphale's waistcoat.

"Maybe all those books have rubbed off on you," he says. He keeps his hand around Aziraphale's wrist until he's finished unbuttoning the waistcoat. He squeezes Aziraphale's wrist before letting go. "You collect dangerous stuff, Principality."

"They really aren't that treacherous. They're just books."

Crowley touches a hand to his shoulder and gently nudges him into spinning around. His fingertips skim Aziraphale's shoulders and he delicately tugs the waistcoat down and off. Then the pressure of the clothing and Crowley's touch is gone. Aziraphale holds still and breathes. Crowley's steps are silent, but when he crosses into Aziraphale's field of vision again the waistcoat is draped over his arm. It's a pale shape against the faint sheen of his black shirt.

"One of those books called me here," Crowley counters. He carefully places the waistcoat down on top of a stack of books. He tries to make it look casual, but Aziraphale can tell, and he has to hold back another fond smile.

"I don't think you have plans to _hurt_ me. Or you would have already."

"Wouldn't be fun."

"You do seem confident that you can talk me into … whatever it is you want."

"Out of." Crowley winks. Then he laughs. "Oh, you like that, don't you?"

"Of course not." Aziraphale's skin is hot, underneath the collar of his shirt. He can tell that his cheeks and ears must be pink too. And because Crowley is so determined to keep him in a spotlight, he's sure that it's visible. At least it can read as embarrassment, here. Shyness.

Or it would, if Crowley would let him play it that way. "I had some time to think while I waited for them to put me back together," he says. "You never did answer my question about desire. You went to such trouble to summon me. Could've just asked around about what I was up to like you always have. What made last time different, Aziraphale?"

The sound of his name rolling off Crowley's tongue chimes in Aziraphale's chest.

"Just … doing my duty."

"Shirt," Crowley says, soft.

Aziraphale lets Crowley see his fingers slip on his first attempt to undo a button, but Crowley does not offer help this time. He watches. As soon as Aziraphale begins to pull the shirt down his shoulders, Crowley sucks in a breath. Aziraphale gives him another through-his-lashes look and gets to see Crowley sway. There's a strand of red hair that's fallen against the side of his face. He inhales and his throat moves.

It feels very, very good. Aziraphale takes more time than is necessary to slide the shirt off his arms.

When Aziraphale is finally done, Crowley holds out one hand. He takes the shirt without touching Aziraphale and sets it down on top of another stack of books. Then he snaps his fingers. The light above Aziraphale's head dims to half-brightness, taking some of Aziraphale's breath with it.

Crowley moves serpent quick and is behind him again, mouth at his ear.

"I think an angel with as many demonic records as you've got has a bit of an obsession," he says. "Whether you want to admit it or not." Crowley drags his tongue over the rim of Aziraphale's ear and when Aziraphale shudders, he presses forward, humming. His silk shirt is cool against Aziraphale's flushed shoulders, his back. He slides a hand over Aziraphale's hip and across his bare stomach, his fingers dipping to graze Aziraphale's belt. "Any particular demon you've been trying to keep track of?"

Aziraphale takes in a gulp of air. Crowley brings his other hand around. Undoes his belt buckle.

"Answer," Crowley says, in the same soft voice as _shirt._

The belt slides off.

Aziraphale's approximation of a heart is beating wildly in his chest, his hands actually shaking from just imagining what look must be on Crowley's face. He whispers, "It's not as if anyone else has been here, has it? Not as long as either of us. Not as long as you."

"Mmm." Crowley kisses him just behind his ear. He snaps his fingers: Aziraphale's shoes, his socks, are now sitting underneath the table where his shirt was placed. "Not really an answer. Don't think you can wriggle out of this."

"Out of…?" Aziraphale touches the arm coiled around him.

"I told you, I had time to think. You've collected all these books, all these names. You could have called anyone if you were just doing your duty. Thwarting more demonic wiles for Heaven. You called… who?"

Aziraphale bites his lip.

At his refusal to answer, Crowley snaps his fingers again. There's air on Aziraphale's thighs, the curve of his ass, his cock. The rest of his clothing is in a neat pile with his shirt.

"I would have removed them myself," Aziraphale protests.

The bookshop is always cool, he should be shivering, but Crowley is pressed up against him. Holding him. Even though he's still dressed he's bleeding heat into Aziraphale. So when Aziraphale does shiver it's entirely because Crowley is slowly grinding against him and not because he's cold.

"Less fun. Besides, I can tell you don't want to wait." Crowley shifts his arm on Aziraphale's stomach and with his free hand he reaches down. Draws his fingertips along the semi-hard line of Aziraphale's cock. "Willing to make you, though."

His hand is gone. Aziraphale has the embarrassing urge to thrust forward against air.

"If you want to be touched, you've got to admit who you want touching you. Whose name have you been hunting for in all those books of yours?"

Aziraphale has to brace himself and the only place to do it is Crowley. He leans back a little, which gets him a satisfied noise in his ear and a hard thrust of Crowley's hips. He puts both hands down on the arm around him. Even through the shirt Crowley is so warm. He takes in another gulp of air. Raises his gaze into the low light. It dims a little more so it isn't glaring into his eyes.

And he very much thinks that he's hit on what Crowley wants when he says, "My dear fellow, you do have me cornered. Who I've been searching for should be obvious by now."

"Aziraphale," Crowley says. The slightest hint of a hiss. "Say it."

Aziraphale lets himself shudder in the demon's grip and murmurs, "Crowley."

"Right answer, angel."

What the right answer earns Aziraphale is Crowley's mouth on the back of his neck and Crowley's hand wrapping around his cock. The touch of his hand is hot and in a moment it is also slick, Crowley ever a demon for convenience. Crowley shifts his other arm to better brace Aziraphale. He lays short kisses along Aziraphale's neck. His fingers shift, and his thumb slides over the head of Aziraphale's cock.

Aziraphale gasps. Crowley hums against Aziraphale's throat. He draws his hand back and forth, rocks his hips. Aziraphale presses his bare shoulders to Crowley's still silk-covered chest. His fingers dig into Crowley's arm - for balance, of course.

And that earns him a laugh. "Hardly eager," Crowley teases.

"Am I-" Aziraphale shudders at the touch of another kiss on his neck. "Am I the only one to be unclothed?"

"Trying to negotiate terms?"

What Aziraphale is actually trying, really, is not to grind back against Crowley. But Crowley is hard, beneath his jeans, and is also clearly enjoying Aziraphale enjoying himself. He's fairly sure that when Crowley's tongue traces the edge of his ear again, he feels a forked end. Though, really, it seems early for Aziraphale to have so fully surrendered to Crowley's charms. Even if Crowley is doing that light-touch _thing_ with the edge of his nail that he knows winds Aziraphale up, that isn't fair, it's not as if Crowley-the-revenging-demon who knows all about Aziraphale's books would know _that._

He manages to say, "You did say last time that we could come to an … an arrangement."

"Got all I could want right now." Crowley shifts his weight. "Angel in my arms. Dark, quiet bookshop. No summoning circles to get in our way."

"There must be something else, Serpent," Aziraphale tries, tentative.

"You think you're clever."

Aziraphale starts to say, "Try to be," but it gets lost somewhere along the way when Crowley does that _thing_ again. Crowley presses his face to Aziraphale's hair. He keeps moving his hand and it's rough enough that Aziraphale can't say anything at all. He finds himself going weak in Crowley's grip. Crowley does let up, some, when Aziraphale comes under his touch, but he doesn't stop. By the time he's spent, Aziraphale is trembling so much he barely notices Crowley drawing his hands behind his back. He takes several deep breaths.

He does register the touch of silk on his wrists.

It occurs to him, as Crowley lays the silk over itself, that this must be Crowley's tie. Because Crowley cannot see his face, Aziraphale does not feel too badly about the scene-breaking grin that steals over him. He does think he's able to keep it out of his voice when he says, "I should have expected something like this from a demon."

"Principality," Crowley says, when he's bound Aziraphale's wrists tight. "Angel of the Eastern Gate. Is that what you'd like to be called for this?"

It's not a threat. It's not hissed into his ear with a forked tongue. Crowley says it calmly, assuredly, and wears twice that confidence on his face when he steps around to be in front of Aziraphale again. His shirt collar is half-upturned from the work of removing his tie. He otherwise looks unruffled.

Aziraphale is sure he must look a mess. He casts his eyes down and back up again, shifts himself as if having his wrists bound has put him off-balance.

"Greedy angel," Crowley says. "What am I going to do with you?"

"You could do considerably more if you were also out of your clothes," Aziraphale points out.

Crowley presses his lips together in the way that he does when he thinks he can keep Aziraphale from knowing that Aziraphale said something funny. It takes a moment for him to speak, and his pupils contract to thin lines again, under some effort of will. But when he does speak he says, "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. All those books. Calling me here, after all this time. Not warding your shop against me even though you must've known I'd come back."

Aziraphale lifts his chin. "I've been cooperative. Small thing to ask, not to be the only one undone."

"I don't know if you've earned it."

"I could," Aziraphale promises.

Crowley's eyes trail over him. Half a smile has crept onto his face.

It would be out of character to lament not being able to see Crowley's expression, so Aziraphale does not. Not when Crowley steps behind him again, not when Crowley pushes him up to the shop counter, not when Crowley bends him over it. He does shut his eyes to focus on the muted sound of Crowley getting rid of his own belt - it clinks as it hits the floor, tossed aside - and undoing the button and zipper on his jeans.

"Is this the sort of thing you were hoping for?" Crowley asks. He bends down to kiss the back of Aziraphale's neck. His shirt has been miracled open (there definitely hadn't been time to unbutton it) and his skin is hot on Aziraphale's. The shirt drapes over Aziraphale's sides while Crowley's hand moves between them to work Aziraphale open.

Aziraphale does not say _yes,_ because that would also be out of character. He does say, letting his voice waver, "It is something I'd expected."

"Anticipated," Crowley corrects, and his fingers hit a spot that makes Aziraphale shudder. So he naturally withdraws his hand instantly, grabs onto Aziraphale's hip instead.

"Awfully presumptuous."

"Awfully impudent. Should've used this tie to gag you instead."

"I think," Aziraphale says, letting out a breath as Crowley starts to press his cock into him, "you like my mouth too much for that."

Crowley's nails dig into his hip. And Aziraphale cannot see his face, but he can hear the restrained laugh under his words. "Well. You did use that mouth to summon me here."

Aziraphale shuts his eyes (in anticipation, since Crowley is, after all, more than frequently right about him) and says, "Crowley."

Crowley's other hand tangles in Aziraphale's hair. He shoves all the way into Aziraphale and Aziraphale is pushed forward. The counter presses hard against his chest and Crowley is moving backward, slow, and forward, fast. Every time Aziraphale lets "Crowley" fall past his lips Crowley's hand tightens in his hair. If he can't touch Crowley back, he'll do what he can.

"You are a treat, angel," Crowley breaths against Aziraphale's throat.

He lets his cheek rest on the counter for a moment. Flexes his fingers, even though he can't really move against the tight binding of Crowley's tie. "Yes," he says, absently, which makes Crowley laugh for real. His tongue skates over Aziraphale's pulse and Aziraphale is _positive_ that the end is forked.

Aziraphale squirms back against Crowley's next thrust and says _"Crowley"_ again. Which is pretty much the end of Crowley.

Crowley groans instead of saying anything while he spills inside Aziraphale. He kisses Aziraphale's neck. The last movements of his hips are lazy and stuttering. On the last kiss, Aziraphale feels that tongue again and the scrape of a fang.

It's out of character, but Aziraphale thinks Crowley doesn't mind when he says, "Oh, dearest."

***

As they settle into bed, Crowley shoves half Aziraphale's mountain of pillows to the floor. Aziraphale has specific ideas about what a bedroom should look like, and Crowley has more specific ideas about what a bedroom should feel like - specifically, that you should be able to sleep in it. Eighteen pillows may be nice for an angel to nestle into like so many Heavenly clouds but do not leave mattress space to actually _be_ on.

"Look, it's either the pillows or me," Crowley says, flopping back against a reasonable pile of three.

"So you've said."

Aziraphale's put on a thick, fluffy robe. It should be more than warm enough, but when he climbs into bed he presses himself up against Crowley's side as if he's cold and Crowley is a furnace. He rests his soft cheek against Crowley's bare chest and looks up at Crowley through his eyelashes.

Changing into pajama bottoms and leaving the shirt on Aziraphale's closet floor had gotten him a sideways look. But Crowley thinks it was the right decision. He's thinking about how to smugly point this out to Aziraphale when Aziraphale opens his mouth.

"I do actually have several books with your name in them."

Crowley says, "Huh?"

"It seems like a thing you've… thought about. I didn't tell you because I thought it would worry you. Also, one of them is rather silly. I'm sure the writer thought he was being _quite_ scandalous."

Crowley stares at the angel curled up in his arms, eyes wide and pale. He looks at the door that opens to the second floor of the bookshop. Historically they've stayed downstairs, so Crowley has not been forced to listen to Aziraphale read excerpts from most of the second-floor books. Has not paid all that much attention to them.

"Angel," he says. "What."

"Well I didn't want _other_ people to have them." Aziraphale lays an arm across Crowley's stomach.

"Course you didn't." There are several things happening that he isn't sure what to do with. Sparks in his brain, a knot between his ribs, his spine registering confusion in the way that spines do. He is struggling to figure out which of the many, many questions he suddenly has to ask first.

Aziraphale wriggles a little closer and puts his head on Crowley's shoulder. "I never would have actually summoned you. But I didn't want anyone else to be able to either."

"When," Crowley starts, brain finally grabbing onto something, "did you get all these books?"

For a second Aziraphale is quiet.

When Crowley looks down at him, Aziraphale starts drawing small circles on Crowley's ribs with his thumb. "Oh," he says. Like he'd forgotten he'd been asked. "Late 1800s, early 1900s. I … I went on a bit of a spree, you see. When you look into prophecy books you end up finding quite a lot of other things. Occult things. It was how I had all those titles to try to trick those awful Nazi spies with."

The rest of the questions occurring to Crowley, like _Wait, who else do you have summoning spells for?_, fall away.

"Late 1800s," he says. Quietly.

"All my books are secure, including those. I do have the shop warded against other demons." Aziraphale pauses. "And Archangels, now."

"Do you," Crowley says, because that is too big to push aside. Angels did not write rituals to keep other angels away. There's only one kind of book that holds that sort of a rite. "Are we talking like cute little privacy spells, or demonic safegua - Angel, where in actual Hell did you get demonic spellbooks?"

Doe-eyed Aziraphale ignores this extremely big question to say, "I did worry about you."

"So you found human spellbooks with my name in them- Please tell me they're human writers, not demons, oh, fantastic. You found human spellbooks with my name in them and added them to your hoard?"

"We've talked about that word, _hoard,_" Aziraphale protests. Crowley gives him a look, and he sighs. "There were never many of them. I have them all, now."

The door is still shut. Crowley looks at it and it doesn't get any less shut. It doesn't lead any less to a floor of books that include summoning spells with his actual name in them. Acquired during a very specific period of time. And maybe spells with other demons' names. Spells that might be less rubbish than Crowley had been assuming, if they'd worried Aziraphale enough to collect. (And, who the fuck knows, didn't Dagon once try writing a 'please make Gabriel go the Heaven away' spell, back in the early days when more of them had visited Earth more often? Hadn't that been a rumor? A rumor, not a confirmed fact, because no one could ever _find_ the spell?)

"I told you because it seemed like it might be important to you, to know that I was… thinking about you, even when..." Aziraphale's voice drifts off. Demons do not blush, so Crowley does not, but he does stare fixedly at this angel in his grip, without the shield of sunglasses. Aziraphale sighs, picks his sentence back up. "I did miss you, Crowley. When we weren't speaking."

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, helplessly.

"Crowley," Aziraphale replies. Hesitates.

Crowley is still, for some reason, stuck on that thing Aziraphale just said, which he thinks he already knew. He doesn't prompt Aziraphale for more.

"Dear. Did you mean it, when you said I radiate light?"

"Ah. Uh."

Only cowards summon sunglasses in bed, so Crowley does not. He does look around the room, though. The fleece sheets in Aziraphale's tartan. The end tables crammed with books, both, so Aziraphale has to reach across Crowley when he wants one from the other side of the bed. Crowley's black sleeping shirt, crumpled on the floor of the closet where he'd let it slip off the hanger.

"Didn't… not mean it," Crowley says. "You _are_ an angel."

Smiling, Aziraphale leans up and presses a kiss to Crowley's mouth. What else is Crowley going to do, but kiss him back?

Aziraphale ends up in his lap, still kissing him, murmuring Crowley's name when they break apart. Aziraphale breathes Crowley's name onto Crowley's lips and lets Crowley push his robe off his shoulders. Like a bastard who thinks he is going to get Crowley to forget that there are actual demonic-authored spellbooks in the shop.

But that's a question for the morning.


End file.
